Well, this lasted long. 5 days, 2 posts and 1 killer old school rap 01-punch-in-the-face3, and I get a stark Punch In the Face: Apparently, someone else already has a Punch In the Face-themed blog (on another blog site). Look, I get it. It’s the Internet and no idea is completely original. And no, the themes aren’t exactly the same — my life is a Punch In The Face, and this blogger’s listing people she wants to punch in the face. You see? Clearly the two blogs theme-atically distinct. But still, I kept holding out hope that my Mommy was telling me the truth: that I really am special. This latest revelation is evidence that, so far, no dice on the “special me” front.
So, where do I go from here? Do I just fold down my laptop and limp off the blog battleground with my head down? You wish. You wish I’d leave my legions of fans: the fourth graders bumping the Punch In the Face mp3 on their iPod’s as they prepare for a grueling day of pop quizes and frustratingly small juice boxes; the salesman ordering a white-on-black Punch In The Face t-shirt from my members-only fan site; and the 5th-year lawyer at the white-shoe law firm whose only respite from the endless stream of billing his time in 6-minute increments is when he stuffs a print out of today’s PITF blog in his $200 trousers and sprints off to the bathroom for a daily dose of the Gospel According to C-ROC . . .
That’s it. I can’t just leave my millions of dedicated disciples. I can’t leave you to fend for yourselves in this cruel, cruel world. You’re very fragile. You’re barely hanging on to the pathetic existence that you refer to as a “life.” Need proof? You’re reading this. Wait . . . come back, I was kidding.
As I thought long and hard about whether I should just throw in the blog towel today, I took an item out of my fan mail. It was a letter — brown and tattered, and it had been folded over eight times. I carefully unfolded the letter like an ancient treasure map. Even though I’ve read this note before dozens of times — hundreds of times maybe — I have to see it, feel it, on days like this where my personal foundation has been shaken to the core. The letter is from Alejandro, a 9 year-old boy from Acapulco (“Alejandro from Acapuloc”, isn’t that adorable?) , a place I haven’t been in about a decade. The note — written in such simplistic Spanish it makes me blush — has only 4 precious words: “Tu Eres Mi Papi.” Powerful. Even as I type this, a tear is gently rolling down my cheek. Wait. You don’t get it? How can you not get it? Don’t you see? I’m this kid’s hero — I’m Alejandro’s personal David Ortiz.
Well, Tu Eres Mi David Oritz, Alejandro. Tu Eres Mi David Ortiz.
I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.